


Universal Paragon

by Idonquixote



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jeeves and Wooster AU, Kirk is supposed to be a gentleman, M/M, Yes you read that right, and Spock is his gentleman's gentleman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idonquixote/pseuds/Idonquixote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Tiberius Kirk is heir to his stepfather's fortune, distant kin to Lord Alexander Marcus, and a modest man thrust into the limelight of etiquette and riches. Like any true gentleman, he spends his time loitering about and playing at the edge of propriety. And when Kirk calls for a valet, Spock of Vulcan arrives on his doorstep. Spock is ever proper, ever wise, and ever so good at keeping his master out of trouble, a true paragon of service. What.</p><p>(Drama, comedy, and a dash of romantic angst follow.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Vulcan's Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a spirk "Jeeves and Wooster"-esque au. I know I have other fics to finish, but this plot bunny just screamed to get done. Let me know if it's worth continuing! This is the pilot chapter for Universal Paragon.

If you asked Jim Kirk, he would have told you that life was a lot easier before his mother had to go and marry that pompous ass. That ass's name was Franklin Lloyd Timberland, a man who made his fortune on crushing the dreams of others and cheating every stock he came across. To little Jimmy, Frank was the alcoholic who smashed his father's photo frame and drove Sam to run away. To his mother and likely a lot of people, Timberland was one hell of a breadwinner.

It was Frank who sent Jim off to some boarding school far from home, who took some perverse delight in making the boy feel inadequate for simply existing, and whose favorite hobby was to make sure George Kirk's name was synonymous with slander in the Timberland household. Well, there were a lot of other going-ons that happened in-between but all you need to know is that Jim went to Starfleet at some point and never made it out.

At some point, the young Kirk returned to rural Iowa to take over his late father's farm. Frank died of stroke some time after and Winona inherited the fortune, which meant Jim was next in line, Sam's name having been scratched out of Frank's will and all. 

Ah yes, how could we have forgotten. A man named Christopher Pike, an old friend of the late Captain Kirk, stopped by to tell our young man that a very wealthy, very powerful individual within the Federation had his interests at heart. And this was how Jim made the acquaintance of Alexander Marcus (Lord). 

Jim started a new life in upper San Francisco and met a good number of people afterwards. Being a bitter, dare-devil sort of individual, James T. Kirk knew exactly how to handle this newfound fortune. 

* * *

"Damn it, Jim!" Bones cursed, casting his friend that look which said I-will-eat-you-alive-or-so-help-me, as they sprinted down the road, avoiding yet another fatal collision with a speeding hovercraft. "Always- always ends like this when I'm with you!" 

"I know you love me too," was Jim's retort between breaths.

He turned, grinning, and immediately stopped in his tracks when that bulk of a man- Cupcake, as Jim had so affectionately dubbed him- blocked the path ahead. _Oh shit._ It was a bit late for curse. Jim crashed into the man and the two went down flailing and punching. One muscly arm rammed into his nose and Jim gasped, the blood clouding his vision. 

"There you go again!" Bones hissed, coming to his aid.

It would have been two against one if Cupcake's security buddies hadn't joined the fight. Jim received a punch to the gut, then a straight shiner in the eye before he was slammed on the pavement and handcuffed. Bones was doing no better, shouting expletives as they pinned him to the wall with a split lip. Now he owed Bones fifty drinks, if he counted that last time.

The pair was unceremoniously shoved into the law cruiser and an hour later, Jim found himself cuffed to a chair, a robot questioning him in a room that looked like it would squash them both if they acted out of turn. It had been a bit intimidating the first time around, but now he was used to it.

"James Tiberius Kirk, you are charged with trespassing, jaywalking, assault, and petty theft," the automaton said, glaring at him with as much emotion as a robot could muster.

"Hey, hey, I was invited fair and square."

"Citizen 34X9900-1254 Federation Earth: Nyota Uhura, says otherwise. You, James Tiberius Kirk, arrived in her residence uninvited and stole 8 microchips that were not in your possession. This is trespassing and theft. In addition, you insulted officer Hendorff and resisted arrest."

"Pfft, Cupcake's always on my case."

"This is the thirty-first time you have resisted arrest. One) Stealing pastries from Sir Garok Two) Assaulting Lord Harrison Three) Shirking your duties-"

"Okay, I get it. You might want to shut up now."

"You have a fine of three-hundred credits and a sentence of one month in jail. If we calculate your previous trans-"

The robot never got the chance to finish its speech. The doors slid open and a very disappointed, slightly miffed Christopher Pike was standing at the entrance. 

"Come out, Jim. I've paid bail."

Jim wanted to grin but the look in Pike's eyes kept his mouth shut. But he had to ask, "And Dr. McCoy?"

"Paid for himself."

* * *

_I'm not sneaking you out of there next time! Bones had cried, to which Jim had said, Gaila wanted me there!_

_That's your problem, Jim. Think everyone thinks like you. If she was serious, she wouldn't let her roommate call the cops on you, Bones then said, hard eyes softening at the dejected look in young Kirk's eyes._

_Call me if you need any patching up. I'm going to sleep, were Leonard McCoy's parting words._

_Then Jim had been left with Pike, and after seeing to it that his nose wasn't broken, the older man launched into a harsh lecture on how Jim was wasting his life and what a shame this was and how much better he was than this._

_Just a small mistake. Not the first time anyway, Jim had said._

_Believe whatever you want about yourself, but you're better than this, Jim. I know that, were Pike's parting words._

And then Jim had gone home, stumbling into his spacious apartment with a bit of an ache in his face and a smudge of drunkenness. Gaila's microchips had been returned to the law department- shame, he was planning to use them to prank the boys at the club next time. Spoiled lot would deserve it. Jim didn't often feel lonely, at least not since he was a snot-nosed brat.

But he felt a bit alone standing there. The holoscreen was on, running noises behind him. The floor was littered with clothes, sweatshirts, jackets, fur jackets, button-ups, T-shirts, dirty laundry, new socks, a bunch of articles he meant to clean up but never did. The couch was clean, unstained and empty. Only the Starfleet uniform lay clean and tucked away in his closet. The kitchen light was shining but Jim was in no mood to look at the stark whiteness of it all. He considered a sonic shower, but didn't have the drive. 

He didn't want to call Bones. In all honestly, Leonard McCoy was his one real friend. Sure, he was gruff and a bit older and not one of those "heir" types, but McCoy had heart and he cared and he had yet to break Jim's trust like everyone else. He had lots of other friends, but they didn't get him as well, probably wouldn't try either. And it was all so achingly empty.

Pike was disappointed. Well, too bad for him. Jim wasn't George Kirk and never would be.

Marcus was a slimy bastard too, lord or not. And Jim hated him with every new meeting. No, calling him was out of the question too.

He was a little too hurt by Gaila than he cared to admit. So no calling her either. And certainly not that roommate of hers. Did everyone take him for a fool? So Frank had been right. Sam too.

Taking an ice pack to his nose, Jim decided to just screw it all and go to bed. He fell asleep blissfully quick, not even bothering to shed his shirt.

* * *

As expected, Jim woke with a horrible headache. His nose was less swollen, at least. He flipped on his side, the alarm buzzing. Cursing, he struggled to turn it off before remembering that he didn't set the alarm last night- or rather 3 AM. And that buzzing didn't sound like the alarm either.

It was really loud, an echo-ey sound. Brrrinnnnnggg. Something like that. It kept going. He groaned. 

The doorbell.

Jim fell out of bed and crawled forward, pulling his crooked pants up, running a hand through his exhausted face. The bastard at the door had a pattern- he'd ring for fifty seconds, then give five seconds in between, then ring again. The fact that Jim bothered picking this up told him he was a little more awake. Brrrinnnnggg. Damn it, this guy had nerve.

"I'm coming!" he growled.

Jim only remembered what he must have looked like when he finally got to the door. He punched in the security code and waited for the door to slide open. He knew his hair was a clumped yellow mess of disarray. He stunk of sweat, blood, and beer. His shirt was tattered and stained with said blood and said sweat and said beer. There was a purple shiner below his left eye, his nose was red, and his face must have been a pale, mottled thing. Not to mention the dark circles around his already sorry looking eyes.

Maybe that was why he could only stare with an open jaw when the door revealed his new guest. 

Of all the things, it was a Vulcan. Jim closed his eyes and opened them again to make sure he was seeing right. Pointed ears, curved to a tip. Definitely Vulcan.

The Vulcan was one of those tall, dark types with eyes that just read I'm-smarter-than-you, and from what Jim could see under that bowler hat, sleek black hair. He was in an equally dark suit and tie, one pale hand holding onto a suitcase, the other a thin umbrella. Compared with Jim's post-misery hunch, the Vulcan might as well have had a ruler for a back. 

"Who's funeral is it?" Jim found himself saying.

The Vulcan lifted one slanted eyebrow in response.

"Nevermind. Who are you?" _And what the hell do you want with me?_

"My name is Schn T'Gai Spock. Mr. Kirk, your application to the Fennydmede center has been approved. I am your new valet. My services start today and shall continue until you deem no longer necessary."

He spoke with a voice as deep and grim as Jim had expected. He continued staring at the Vulcan until the words sunk in.

"Oh. OH. You're my new valet?"

"That is what I said, sir. From this day forth, I shall be your personal gentleman."

"Oh. Um, I didn't expect it- you- so soon."

"..."

Jim groaned, stepping back, gesturing for the Vulcan to step in. He did after a muttered "thank you, sir." The door slid and clicked locked once more. 

"So what do I call you, valet?"

"It is customary to address me by my family name, sir. But humans tend to have difficulty in pronouncing the syllables. In such a case, sir, I have been given permission to say: you may call me Spock."

Spock showed himself into the living room and surveyed the area. Jim could have sworn he did the Vulcan equivalent of a frown. And he had to admit that if he was in Spock's shoes, he would have high-tailed it out of there.

"So Spock, I guess you need a room too. I've got a spare one down the hall."

The Vulcan stared at him blankly. 

"I could show it to you later."

"Very well, sir."

"And you mind dropping that?"

"Dropping what?"

"The sir? I'm no sir. Just call me Jim."

Spock contemplated this before speaking: "I would prefer not to, sir." And then he was off, setting his case and umbrella against the wall, and making a beeline for the kitchen. Jim followed, calling after him, something along the lines of "what the hell, man?"

But Spock must have some kind of alien superpower because by then, he was already synthesizing a glass of mud-colored fluids. "It will be sour on your taste buds, sir, but this source of sustenance harbors the right amount of protein and supplements to reinvigorate your person."

"I'm not drinking that crap."

"I suggest you do, sir. And this 'crap' as you put it, is a source of high nutritional value, highly suggested in the event of over-consuming alcohol."

"Give it here."

Jim dunked down that drink in two seconds flat. It was horrible. Really, he wanted to retch. He probably did because Spock's arms were around him when he stumbled, surprisingly firm and solid, with some statement of "I do not advise drinking so fast, sir." And Jim probably said something along the lines of "easy for you to say."

When he regained himself, Jim stepped away from the valet's arms. His head was a hell of a lot clearer and he felt like he had just taken ten straight cups of coffee. He still felt like crap, but he felt like good crap. Eyes widening from being revived, Jim let out a long relieved sigh. 

"Holy shit. That was some strong stuff, S-"

Maybe it was because his head and vision were a hundred times clearer. Or maybe it was because Spock's hat was off. Because Jim momentarily forgot what he was going to say when he looked at the Vulcan again. Bowed lips, smart eyes, clean skin. There was a sensuous mystery in Mr. tall dark and handsome, and Jim quite suddenly decided then and there that his valet was a smoldering pile of hot Vulcan.

Maybe this valet was worth keeping around after all. He made good eye candy and crappy energy drinks, if nothing else.

"Sir?" Spock inquired.

"What? Oh, I'm fine. Think I'll go wash up. You okay on your own?"

"I believe so, sir."

With that, Jim left, feeling far more refreshed and cockier than he had ever been. A sonic shower, a quick shave, and some heavy tooth-brushing later, Jim left the bathroom smelling a lot less like beer and a lot more like detergent, his hair darkened and matted with water, a towel wrapped below his waist. And for a minute, he thought he stepped on the surface of an alien planet.

Because for once, the living room was clean, all that dirty laundry gone, the shirts and jackets off the floor. The carpet looked like it had just been vacuumed. And Spock was standing beside the couch, hands folded behind his back, looking just a little too smug and arrogant for a Vulcan. Then again, all Vulcans seemed smug and arrogant to Jim. Not that he'd actually met any before Spock.

"Sir," Spock greeted.

"Where are my clothes?"

"The dirtied articles are in the wash machine. I have hand-washed the ones that require it. The rest of your clothing has been rearranged and set into your room. You will find them folded by alphabetical order and hung up by color palette."

Jim offered him a crooked grin.

"Well, I guess I could get used to this."

"Very good, sir."


	2. A Gentleman's Vulcan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've decided to give continuing this a shot. But I'm still not sure if I should. Please let me know if it's a good idea or not!

Spock was still there when Jim awoke, which could only mean one thing: it hadn't been a dream and the Vulcan valet was very, very real. Jim Kirk did admit it felt a little too surreal, though. The swelling in his nose had gone down significantly and his head hadn't felt this good in ages- those two things were enough for him to feel that he had reached heaven on Earth. And then Spock had ruined that illusion of peace by coming in his room at 9 AM sharp.

"Good morning, sir," the valet announced in a voice that Jim nearly mistook for a computer's.

Jim ignored him and drove himself deeper into his cocoon of blankets. Spock then pulled the covers down and Jim was left trying to keep from being blinded by the light shimmering in from the windows, the Vulcan having set the curtains to draw apart. "Damn it, Spock," Jim muttered, "what time is it?"

"Nine hundred hours, sir. For a productive day, it is essential that you take in the proper amount of nutrients. Your present condition is evident of this fact."

"The hell?"

Somewhere along the line, Spock had found the time to place a miniature table on the covers, trapping Jim's legs. Feeling more awake, the man found his eyes drawn to the cart Spock had wheeled in- he caught sight of a tea set and some plates of- nevermind, the Vulcan had removed the plates and was busy setting them on the table. An omelette on one dish, a light salad on the other, a plate of sliced cheese cubes, a bowl of oranges, and an empty mug. 

"Would you prefer tea or coffee, sir?"

"You did all this, Spock?"

"Yes, sir. Do you you prefer tea or coffee?"

Jim picked up a fork. "All this for me?" He grinned teasingly. Spock was unfazed. "Tea or coffee?"

"Fuck it. Coffee, put in extra sugar."

"Very good, sir."

 _How many sirs can we fit in one conversation?_ Jim watched Spock pour the coffee and stir in the cream and sugar, not a stray drop to be seen. Awkwardly, Jim looked away, cutting up his omelette and stuffing pieces in his mouth, leaving crumbs all over the table. He was no "sir." Sir was what you called Uncle Marcus and people like Lord Harrison- the prim, snot-nosed types that went around looking at everyone else like they were dirt below their (designer) shoes. Hell, even Franklin made a better "sir" than Jim. Spock should prepare to be disappointed.

Every time a loose piece of food found its way to Jim's chin, the Vulcan dipped at it with a napkin, and that was very often, given Jim's eating habits. At some point, he decided to just be a slob for the heck of it and see how Spock would react. True to his Vulcan heritage, Spock _didn't_ react.

"Your PADD, sir."

"I gave you my code last night, didn't I?"

"You did."

"So any new messages for me?"

Jim held up the Padd, leaning back on his pillows as Spock cleared the dishes and removed the table. He absently checked the web for Federation headlines and who won the last Glackball game. 

"There is one from Lord Marcus. He wishes to meet you for lunch."

Jim froze up. His veins might as well have literally turned to ice. If Marcus wanted to meet him, it could only mean one thing- he found another unlucky fiancee and planned to push Jim on her. 

"Like hell I'm going."

"I have already scheduled it for you. He intends to meet you at the Betazoid Bistro at twelve."

And with that, Jim shot from his covers, nearly hitting the ground as he rolled. _I want to kill you!_ "What the hell, pointy!? When did I tell you to schedule this bullshit?"

"Pointy? Is that a derogatory reference-"

"Zip it, Spock! We have to go. Right now."

"Sir, I do not-"

"Shit, no time to waste. It's what, ten right now? I'm going to hit the shower- get my clothes."

"Sir-"

Jim stumbled toward the doorway. "And ring up Dr. McCoy!"

* * *

As expected, Bones stared at them disapprovingly, both of them. Jim sat across from the older man, a table in between, the smooth sound of jazz filling the silence in the club, and Spock was standing by his master's side, still in that funeral suit. Compared with Bones and his open collar, Jim knew he was overdressed, stuck in a stiff suit he only wore when Marcus was around.

"You're screwed, kid."

"I need advice, real advice here." Jim let his head fall on a palm. 

"Why don't you get the valet to do it for you? Seeing as _you're_ the cause of this mess in the first place," Bones replied, giving Spock a glare. The Vulcan only raised a brow in turn.

"I fail to see how this is a mess, doctor."

"Honest, Jim, applying for one of these? What were you thinking? Could've just gotten yourself a computer and saved the trouble."

"I know, okay? I know!"

Jim drowned another shot of whiskey, thinking of Marcus' biting words and cold glare- ugh. Still sizing Spock up, Bones continued: "Okay, fine. Here- call Marcus. Say you're sick- I'll write you the words."

"I told him I was sick last week!"

"Injured-"

"The week before."

"Damn it, Jim!"

"This is coming out of your salary, Spock," Jim hissed.

"Like that's going to help you now," Bones huffed, shaking his head.

"If I may, sir, from the information I have gathered about Lord Marcus, there is a simpler solution in sight."

"Oh no- you've done enough-" Jim started, before Bones cut him off. "Forget it, kid. Spill, valet."

Spock coughed (delicately) into his hands. "I believe there is a Miss Gaila in your acquaintance, sir. Lord Marcus had a rather checkered tryst with her 4.5 years ago. This information I have obtained from Lord Harrison's butler. I suggest you invite her to the bistro and stage it so that she appears by surprise. In the distraction that follows, you leave his side."

Holy shit. "Holy shit," Jim said. 

"Hold your horses," Bones said, "why would Mr. Fancy's butler tell you all that?"

Spock raised a (condescending) brow. "He owes me a favor and I merely decided to collect."

"Do you realize how creepy that sounds?" Bones put a hand on Jim's shoulder. "So it's up to you, kid- man up and face the old man or take your hobgoblin's advice?"

"Hobgoblin, sir? Is that a-"

"Yes, Spock, it is." Jim emptied another shot of whiskey. "And yes, Bones, I think I _will_ take my hobgoblin's advice."

* * *

Alexander Marcus was a very distant member of the Kirk family, to be perfectly honest. He was the brother-in-law of George Kirk's third cousin and with no sons of his own, he took to begrudgingly forcing the Marcus title on James Tiberius, even if it meant attempting to betroth his own daughter to him not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times. Jim had been elated the first time- Carol Marcus was smart and beautiful to boot. But it wasn't long before he realized his feelings never extended more than that; that and he saw no reason why Carol couldn't inherit the title. As it turned out, she wanted to pursue a career in medicine and ignore all that aristocratic mumble jumbo. And that was when Jim found out she had also set him up to take the "fall" for her.

One thing led to another and soon every meeting with Marcus would inevitably lead to his attempting to marry Carol off to him or pressuring him to court some poor girl; Marcus wanted grandchildren. And the only solution Jim had was to act like a sleazeball and turn off every woman he was forced to suit. It worked, but it really did no wonders for his reputation.

And now he found himself face-to-face with Alexander Marcus once more, in a bright, flowery place with red wine and expensive champagne. Jim tried to look out the dome-window as he broke bits of bread, instead of staring at Marcus' solemn face for another hour. If Spock failed to come through for him, the galaxy would be one unemployed Vulcan more.

"You'll be thirty soon, James," Marcus remarked, casting Jim a snide glance, "do you really want to waste your life this way?"

"I've been making the most of it." Jim touched his wine glass, but Marcus' stare prevented him from physically picking it up. 

"I know your type, boy. Loitering around, gambling, spending your days frolicking instead of learning. Sometimes I'm ashamed to be related to you."

_Yeah, it's mutual._

"I hear you were arrested two days ago."

"It was a misunderstanding-"

"With you like this, it's no wonder no respected woman would come near you. Stop wasting your money on brothels and start building up a reputation."

"You mean, get a job?" Jim tried to joke. Marcus' frown sent that smile away.

"You know very well what I mean."

"I don't."

"Jessica Granmpton is an educated girl and I hear her family is looking for a husband." _And here it comes._

"Really, I don't think-"

"It's not a matter of what _you_ think." And before Marcus could continue, Jim saw it- a flash of green skin- the Orion had arrived. She draped her arms around Marcus' neck and the geezer literally froze up.

"Alex, why didn't you tell me you were here?" she purred, looking a lot more sensuous and a lot less sincere than when Jim last saw her. She was showing too much cleavage and leg to boot too. Was it part of the act?

"Something the matter, uncle?" Jim asked, trying to keep the satisfaction at bay. Alexander Marcus was _blushing_.

"I- I don't know you," Marcus sputtered. At that, Gaila pouted, resting her chin on his head. To Jim's amusement, the surrounding customers were starting to stare. 

"Would you like to pay your bill, sir?"

Jim spun around. The waiter behind him was none other than- "Spock," he whispered, "how-?"

The Vulcan raised a finger to his lips before gesturing for Jim to follow. As Gaila planted herself in Marcus' lap and generally embarrassing the hell out of him, Jim stood up. "I'm just going to go now, uncle. Uh, thanks for lunch." And he was gone, Marcus too mortified to follow.

Spock began unbuttoning the waiter's white uniform as Jim caught up with him, the rest of the restaurant too distracted to notice their escape. Still, Jim couldn't help a few paranoid looks behind his shoulder.

"Hey, Spock, you're not seriously going to strip here are you?"

"I do not understand." Spock shed the waiter's jacket and left it on a chair. The valet's uniform was still unwrinkled underneath. 

"Nevermind."

They made it down a flight of stairs, past an elevator, and finally reached fresh air in the outside world. At that point, Jim hollered in joy, enthusiastically clapping Spock on the back. "Okay, I don't know how you did it, but it was awesome! Seriously, how!?"

Spock smoothed his hair. "Miss Gaila's roommate, Miss Uhura, is an old acquaintance of mine. You could say I called upon a friend for a favor. She was eager to agree and as such, Miss Gaila was as well."

" _Uhura_ \- does she know it's Jim Kirk that needs help? She hates my guts, Spock!"

They started a brisk walk away from the building, dodging a few hover cars along the way. Spock raised his eyebrow by an eighth of an inch. "I reasoned with her- she accepts that your trespass was a misunderstanding. That and I do not believe she is fond of Lord Marcus."

"Okay... but your friend? Since when?"

"Nyota Uhura participated in an exchange program among Federation students in her secondary school years. As an ardent scholar of languages, she chose Vulcan. We made our acquaintance in my upper institution- I believe humans call it 'high school.'"

"So high school sweethearts?" Jim nudged him. Spock didn't react, the bore.

"Forget it. It was a stupid joke." Jim was about to start a whistle when he realized he forgot something important, the ritual that would signify their success for all to see. "Spock, put up your hand."

"Like this, sir?" The Vulcan awkwardly raised his hand.

"Perfect. Up top!" And before Spock could react, Jim had slapped his own palm against Spock's, the sound of a glorious high-five audible in his ears. The valet's ears proceeded to turn green. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the encouragement from the last chapter! And thanks for reading this one. I hope you enjoyed it and please feel free to leave kudos/comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are always welcome and comments tell me this gets to be more than a one-shot.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this piece of borderline crack.


End file.
